


Lace

by angelaiswriting (carolinemoore)



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, Oral Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-11
Updated: 2019-02-11
Packaged: 2019-10-26 11:17:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17744927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carolinemoore/pseuds/angelaiswriting
Summary: Sergei and Y/N have been dancing around each other for more than both know, but he never thought he could really have a chance with her. At least, not until he disappears for days on end to help Anatoly and Vladimir and he comes back home bruised just to realize Y/N has been worried sick by the news of him getting injured.





	Lace

**Author's Note:**

> Holy shit, I suck at summaries, I'm so sorry hahaha
> 
> Happy reading, though! xx

_****Jesus Christ, give me strength!_

He cannot look away. Fucking shit, Sergei Yurchenko cannot look away from…

_(O my God. Don’t look there!)_

… from her _fucking tits_.

Oh God, he’s finally admitted it.

Sure, he’s not a saint, but he’s not a douche, either. Really. Sergei is a gentleman–the best gentleman one can find at _Veles Taxi_ , that is. But Y/N… Fuck, when she’s present and she’s bent over the hood of his cab just like she is now and _you can look underneath her blouse_ … It doesn’t matter that she’s half-yelling at him, repeating him that _she_ is the one dispatching calls and not him and that he should do as she says, and she’s trying her hardest to drill the concept into his stone-hard skull. It doesn’t matter because from the driver’s seat he can see her black lace bra _and holy mother of God_ , the things lace does to him…

He tries not to wiggle in his seat and even more, not to fix his pants–he already knows her speech by heart by now, so it’s not like he’s busy listening to her. What he’s busy with, though, is ogling those two hanging boobs that just…

 _Fuck_ , they do _things_ to him.

For starters, they get him _hard_ –fucking _stone_ -hard, for his woods haven’t been called ‘woods’ ever since Y/N started to work for Anatoly and Vladimir Ranskahov at the garage.

And he should not– _boy, I should yes_ –think of her that way. Shouldn’t think of fucking her senseless on the back seat of his cab and not even on the desk she uses at work. He shouldn’t think of how she might look under her blouses nor of _how many fucking lace bras she owns_ –shouldn’t think of his hands on her hips and her above him as she unclasps said bras and throws them somewhere. He shouldn’t even think of those lipstick-coated lips as they wrap around his-

“Are you even listening to me?” Y/N yanks the driver’s door of his taxi open and shakes his shoulder. He looks up at her, his lips parted, eyes slowly trailing from her bosom to her lips and he tries his damn hardest to divert his mind from the sight of her bent over his car–he’s starting to think he’d like to take her from behind in that position, her breasts pressed against the metal surface of the hood, but he _should not think of her that way_. “I swear to God, Sergei! You can’t up and leave me without a car because you just want to get off the grid for a couple of hours! Let me do my work and I won’t fuck up yours.”

 _You’re already fucking_ me _up, zayka_ , he thinks, but he doesn’t voice his thoughts.

“ _Da, da_ ,” he groans instead and she moves to let him out of the car. His head is pulsing where his cheek met a punch, but it’s still more bearable than the throbbing inconvenience between his legs. He hopes and prays she won’t look down because he’s not sure his pants are doing much to conceal him.

“What in the world happened to your face?”

She grabs his chin before he can stop her and he hisses both in surprise and in slight pain. Her fingers are cold against his warm skin, her fingertips pressing so hard into his flesh that it’s almost like she’s grabbing his bones. It’s her payback and he knows he deserves it, it’s just that motherfucking douche deserved his fists.

Sergei tries to dismiss her worries, but she’s not moving away, she’s not taking her hand off of him. His breathing pattern slowly turns ragged and he has to force himself to keep breathing–slowly in from the nose, slowly out of the nose, it doesn’t matter if its bridge hurts–because he knows that if he lets his mind wander, he’ll have her pinned between his body and the wall.

“Jesus Christ, Yurchenko!” she groans, nostrils flaring, eyes hard as stone. “I can’t fucking believe you left me with one man less just because you wanted to pick up a fight!”

They both hear Piotr’s amused chuckle as he quickly clocks out to go home for the night. He yells a final exclamation before leaving the garage, one only Sergei understands because Petya makes sure to use Russian, a language Y/N still doesn’t speak. _Fuck her already_ , he smirks and _boy_ , if only Sergei could…

But there’s some age gap between him and Y/N, and he… He doesn’t know, he’s insecure. It’s not even that much, but who knows if she’d entertain the idea? He should just stop having those thoughts about her, leave her the fuck alone, but even her cheap perfume draws him in like a magnet.

“I will tell Vladimir next time.” It’s a promise, he knows, and as he stares into her eyes, he knows she wants to do it _now_ –she’s pissed, she’s _mad_ , they probably lost a couple of clients because he felt so insulted he needed to throw some punches, but she still holds back. Her fingers are still on his chin, their grasp not as hard now, and she doesn’t make a move to step back and let him go. “You can’t just do this,” she sighs after a minute or two and slightly shakes her head.

He feels like holding her, like wrapping his arms around her waist. He wants to feel her flush against him–just for once, just to know what it feels like–but he, too, doesn’t move. “I will call next time,” he finds himself promising. It won’t happen, they both know it, but it doesn’t exactly matter.

“You won’t.” Her fingers leave his skin and she takes a step back. Sergei has to stop himself from taking a step forward, closing the distance, or at least reducing it. “Because you won’t do such a thing again. Now give me a lift home.”

*

The passenger’s seat of his car still smells like her the next morning. Sergei doesn’t know if it’s just an illusion or if her perfume still _really_ lingers on the leather seat, but it doesn’t matter. He stares at it longer than he realizes and it’s Piotr that brings him back to reality, banging on his window and laughing like the dick he is.

“What the fuck were you doing?” Piotr’s tone is amused when Sergei finally gets out of the car. There’s an exchange of cigarettes and lighters and for a moment they both keep quiet, enjoying the harsh drag of the smoke as it reaches their lungs.

It’s a welcoming feeling, a morning ritual before starting their shift. They often don’t have a problem smoking _during_ their cab rides–clients can either go fuck themselves or shut the fuck up–but it’s still good to have a few minutes of peace before starting the day.

“So?”

Sergei shrugs his shoulders. He looks up at the clear morning sky, puffs out the smoke and takes a deep breath of the chilly air. “What?”

“What were you staring at?”

Another shrug. “Nothing.” He doesn’t mention the ride he’s given Y/N the night before, nor that he’s had to relieve himself in the shower, nor that he’s found it hard enough to fall asleep. He doesn’t even know what it is exactly that does this to him–doesn’t know why she has this effect on his body and his mind–but there’s nothing he can do to stop himself from feeling like a horny teenager around her.

Piotr takes a long drag from his cigarette and stares long and hard at his buddy. “Did you drink?” he enquires. “Because if you’re drunk and she finds outs…” He chuckles, his thumb drawing an invisible line that cuts all the way across his throat.

“I’m not drunk.” Sergei’s answer is a grunt. He hasn’t drunk in ages and he’s proud of that, he doesn’t want to… to go back there, do the shit he’s done when he hit rock bottom. “And she-”

But he’s cut off when he sees her walk through the open gate that looks on the garage’s backyard. His breath is cut short and his next drag from the cigarette is harsh, it hisses in the clear morning air.

It’s like he’s alone not just in the yard, but in the whole world, too, and she’s right there with him. He’s _that_ desperate. And when she greets him and Piotr with a smile, Sergei likes to think she’s smiling at him.

With a whistle, Piotr calls his usual ‘ _Privyet_ ’ and while his friend hears it, he doesn’t see his omnipresent smirk.

She looks… _so good_ in that flowery dress of hers. It’s always breathtaking to see her in a skirt and not in her usual jeans–and Sergei has to admit that her legs are a fucking weak spot of his. He imagines his rough hands trailing up her soft skin, from the ankles to her knees to her thighs as he spreads them open to-

 _Stop it_.

She’s too much for him, more than he deserves, and he knows this, really, he does. She’s her and he’s… well, he is what he is. There is no way she’ll ever… ever consider anything more than a friendship with him. And yet, this doesn’t do anything to stop _his_ fantasizing.

He wonders if she’s wearing a lace bra today, too. And what color it is. And how it feels to the touch.

“Yurchenko has a crush?”

When he turns to his left, he sees Piotr chuckling like a kid faced with the hottest secret he could ever find. Sergei doesn’t answer: he grits his teeth, clenching his jaw so hard the bone feels like breaking, and he throws his cigarette to the ground.

“Holy shit!” There’s a gasp at that realization. Piotr is rarely surprised by things, but when it comes to his best buddy… Yeah, _holy shit_. Seriozha is a grown man, he’s probably been with more women than Piotr will ever know, and yet, to see him squirm like that in front of that girl… It’s almost hilarious.

“I will fucking end you.” Sergei is not looking at him, but Piotr knows he’s serious. Maybe he won’t actually kill him, but not even God will be able to stop him from punching that shit-eating smirk off of his friend’s face.

*

“Give me a lift home?”

When Sergei gets out of the toilet after a long day in his cab, the last thing he’d have expected was to find her right there, in the corridor waiting for him. He’s taken aback and he stops in his tracks: she looks tired and her shift should have ended two hours ago, when Ivan took her place, but she’s still here.

He’s tired, too, but she’s a sight for sore eyes–for sore _everything_ , to be honest. He heaves a sigh without even realizing it. He doesn’t stop to wonder why she’s not asked this to Piotr, or to Vladimir, who’s left earlier than usual today. It’s almost comforting to realize she’s been waiting for him long after the end of her shift and _not_ because she had to scold him.

“Sure.” His voice croaks and he starts to move again.

He leads her to his car, his hand on the middle of her back. Neither of them knows how that hand ended up there, but she doesn’t move away and he doesn’t, either.

She’s warm under his touch. She somehow feels _real_ –which is really a stupid thought, Sergei curses himself. Of course, she’s real! But it’s weirdly comforting to know she is, after all, really _real_ and not a product of his imagination. And it’s not like they haven’t touched before–even if not how he’d like to touch her–but…

 _But_ his mind is derailing and he has to stop the course of his thoughts.

They’re both quiet when they enter the car and there, in that confined space, Sergei feels his throat close up. It’s almost like he doesn’t know how to breathe anymore. All he feels is her: her perfume as it tickles his nostrils, her gaze as he turns the key and the engine roars, her _presence_ right there, a few inches from him.

The car feels cramped, but it’s a weirdly pleasant feeling. He knows that, if he only tried, he could touch her–he could stretch his hand out and grab hers, _hold_ hers as he drives. He could even move his hand slightly now, as soon as he removes it from the stick shift, and brush his fingers against hers.

He likes to think she’d let him touch her. It doesn’t have to be sexual, obviously, even just her hand in his would feel like heaven.

“Would you like a drink?” He finds himself asking. The shock of his proposal cuts his breath short–both because he’s suddenly anxious she might say no and because he hasn’t had a drink in what feels like _forever_. There’s no reason to get back to drinking, just as there’s no reason why a drink should catapult him back where he had fallen last time.

“I’d love that, Sergei.” She smiles–he sees it from the corner of his eye–and she’s staring right at him.

He dares a quick glance at her, a shy smile tugging at his lips before he returns his attention back to the road.

 _I’d love that_. Those three words feel good. It’s like a weight has finally been lifted from his shoulders and his stomach and his heart and he can breathe again. _Sergei_. His name has never sounded better than falling from her lips–and if that night was meant to end in failure, he’d still feel like a hero, for hearing her call his name was better than anything else in existence.

“Good,” he nods.

Right after that, he mentally scolds himself. _Good_. What kind of answer was that?

 _Fuck_.

He hasn’t been with a woman in so long he’s forgotten when the last time was. The fear to ruin everything creeps up his spine, shocking his muscles so hard that they tense.

*

He doesn’t remember much about last night, but this time it’s not because he drank too much.

All he remembers are her lips pressing against the rim of the beer bottle, her eyes smiling at him as she listens to his usual bullshit, her thigh pressing against his in the packed space of the booth.

 _I love to listen to you talk_ –her confession is still swirling in his mind. The music had suddenly become loud when someone decided to resuscitate the dying party and she had to scream those words into his ear. Her lips had brushed against his skin, her nose brushing against his earlobe and his hair, her chest against his shoulder to keep her balance.

He wasn’t proud to say it, but the boner he’d gotten from that contact had kept on bugging him until he dropped her off at her place–would she notice? Would she point it out? Would it creep her away?

The fear still lingers: he didn’t see her all day, for today was her day off, and as he stands in front of her apartment building, he’s not sure he wants to go up to her door. But he has a bottle of red wine in his hand–still new, he hasn’t drunk from it and he’s damn proud of it–and he doesn’t want to bring it home, where he could do some shit.

So, he enters the building, walks up the stairs and stops in front of her door. His hand stills mid-air, almost knocking, when he realizes he should have probably called her. What if she’s not home? Or, even worse, what if she _is_ home but with some guy? It’s not like they’re best friends–even though he likes to consider himself a friend of hers; he knows close to nothing about her private life.

His fist falls back down at his side and he’s suddenly second-guessing everything–his presence here, the chance he’d like to have with her, the smiles she sends him…

Someone coughs behind him and he feels like a deer caught in flashlights. His whole body tenses up, his fist tightens. “Are you a friend of the sweet girl that lives here?”

It’s just an old lady, he realizes with a sigh when he turns around. His muscles relax, his brain starts working again. He nods, uncertain–is he, though?

“Well, you should knock, then,” she goes on. The unknown lady does nothing to go back into her apartment. Behind her, Sergei can see a tidy hall and the light of a television reflecting off the mirror at the end of the corridor. He can see himself in it, too, and as he stares at his reflection, he wonders why Y/N should give him a chance–half his face is still bruised, part of his bottom lip is still slightly swollen.

“I-” What was he going to say? He doesn’t know. He sees himself swallow in the mirror, his head towering above that of the old woman, and all he wants is to flee that place. “I don’t know if she’s home,” he eventually confesses, his gaze meeting that of the woman.

“She always is,” the neighbor shrugs. She probably belongs to the nosy type, Sergei thinks, but he’s somehow happy she’s caught him.

They stare at each other for a few minutes after that, none of them saying a word, and the silence is weird and uncomfortable. Sergei shuffles his feet, stares down at his shoes for a second before the door in front of him closes shut without the woman uttering a good-bye.

He doesn’t mind it.

He just turns around and knocks on Y/N’s door before his mind can stop him again.

“Sergei?” She’s surprised when she opens the door, but a smirk tugs at the corner of her lips before she’s fully smiling at him. “What are you doing here? Come in.”

He walks through the door and it’s like walking through an invisible veil. While he was nervous in the corridor just a few moments ago, a wave of calmness and peace washes over him when he passes her and stops a few steps from the door.

His deep breath is met by her quick, unexpected hug before she closes the door behind her back.

“I…” He holds the bottle up between them, almost like a shield in case he needed any protection. But when his insecurities come back, a frown settles on his eyebrows. “I thought I would… stop by?” It comes out like a question. But it doesn’t matter because her smile turns brighter and she takes the bottle he’s handing her.

She grabs his hand in her free one and leads him into her house. “I’m happy to see you.”

His thumb absentmindedly brushes against her skin, but he doesn’t even realize it. He feels light and suddenly his mind is emptied of all his worries. And this time the effect lasts.

*

Things get busy after that night and Sergei finds himself struggling between the legal and the illegal sides of his job. Because of this, his free time is cut short and he barely sees Y/N. Vladimir and Anatoly keep him busy for days with ‘the business’ and all Sergei can think about is that Piotr gets to see _her_ every day.

His insecurities come back with the same force of a freight train.

Piotr knows his secret. What if he spills it? Or what if he decides to ignore it and claim the girl for himself?

Sergei trusts his friend, but he also knows how he is with women. Petya is a fucking Casanova, while he is… trapped in the mud of his past, probably. Piotr knows what to do and what to say to a woman on any occasion. He knows how to make them laugh and how to make them moan. He doesn’t even have to worry because, with a face like that, it’s women that fall at his feet and not the other way around.

Therefore, it’s always hard to focus on the task Sergei is given. He wants to at least play his cards with her and if he’s doomed to fail, then so be it, but at least he’ll be able to tell that he tried. At the same time, though, he doesn’t know what to do. Nor how to do it. He hasn’t put himself out there in so long he fears of making a fool of himself.

But Y/N would never mock him. Or would she?

Anatoly notices his mind is somewhere else and he approaches him one night. “Whatever’s distracting you, forget about it.” Both of them know those words weren’t meant to come out that hash, but there’s no way to swallow them back down.

“Nothing’s on my mind,” is Sergei’s lie.

He still manages to do his job quite well, though, even if he ends up with more bruises than usual–no stitches this time, however, so he’s quite content. It still doesn’t matter, though, because tomorrow he’s going back to his usual job and he’ll be able to see her. And, probably, to know if he’s lost any chance he might have had before he disappeared for all these days.

He’s just got out of the shower when his phone beeps. And as he reads Piotr’s name on the screen, worries and thoughts of failure swarm his mind like locusts.

 _I gave Y/N your address, hope you don’t mind_.

Sergei doesn’t understand those words. What does that mean? Why would she need to know where he lives? Not like it’s supposed to be a secret, of course, but… Unless it’s to tell him to fuck off. That she has Piotr now and she’s happy and _taken_.

But Piotr would have probably bragged about it. Right?

 _She heard you came back beaten up and she was worried_ , was the next message. Piotr might have noticed Sergei was online and that he had read the message, that he was probably still staring at the screen of his phone like the fucking coward he was and thought well of expanding his explanation. _Stop dancing around her and make your fucking move_.

The last message irks Sergei. He throws the phone on his bed as he hastily puts on his boxers.

 _Not your fucking business_ , he writes back before grabbing the first pair of sweatpants he finds in his wardrobe. He doesn’t want to be found there half-naked, not by her–it doesn’t matter he’d like to see _her_ naked and that he’d also like for _her_ to see _him_ naked.

_Dickhead. Make your fucking move before she gets tired of waiting for you!_

Sergei frowns at those words. He’d like to ask what the meaning behind them is, but he’s too scared. Too scared of deluding himself into thinking someone like her might actually even consider liking someone like him back.

He doesn’t have the time to type a reply because someone knocks on his door and he’s suddenly sprinting down the corridor. It’s not until he opens the front door and hears her gasp that he realizes he should have put a shirt on.

“What the hell, Sergei?” she whisper-yells when she sees the bruises on his ribcage.

He’s suddenly ashamed–of himself, of his job, of his bruises, of his messy apartment.

She pushes him back into the hallway and even when her hands leave his chest to close the door, he still feels that contact.

“It’s nothing,” he tries to apologize–even if there’s nothing to apologize for.

“This is _not_ ‘nothing’! And oh my God, your brow is bleeding!” And with those words, she’s taking his face in her hands again to examine the cut above his left eye.

He doesn’t say anything, not even a word.

“Come on, let me clean it up.”

Sergei doesn’t tell her he’s just gotten out of the shower and that, therefore, the cut is as clean as it can be. He simply leads her to his bedroom and then into the bathroom to pick up the first-aid kit.

Steam is still lingering in the air when she pushes him down on the closed toilet. She kneels in front of him and dabs his cut with trembling hands.

“You disappeared,” she finally says after an endless silence.

He’s facing her back, but he can still make out her features on the fogged mirror. “I’m sorry,” he says back, not exactly knowing what else to say. “Work,” he adds after a while when she’s put the box of the first-aid kit back under the sink.

“I was worried,” she continues and this time she turns around and faces him.

“I’m sorry.”

She nods twice before lowering her gaze, her hands fidgeting with each other.

He wants to speak. He _desperately_ wants to. But he doesn’t know what to say. ‘I’m sorry, I had to help kill a man’ didn’t sound like the thing you’d want to tell the woman you like.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” she asks, looking back up at him and finding him a step closer.

The bathroom suddenly feels smaller.

He nods.

“Would you tell me otherwise?”

There’s a chuckle before Sergei stops to actually think about it. He’s another step closer now. “Yes,” he eventually admits, surprising himself and her as well. Yes, he would tell her. He might not have the balls to tell her he likes her, but he’d probably be honest about his well-being with her.

But when her lips press up against his, he doesn’t have to worry anymore. He’s taken aback at first, surprised by the unexpected gesture, his eyes staring into hers, so close he feels her lashes brush against his cheekbones.

There’s a trembling breath on her part before he drags her closer with a grunt, her eyes finally falling closed, her body pressed up against him as he backs her against the sink. Its edge cuts into her back, but she doesn’t feel it, not now.

She’s putty in his arms and Sergei has to hold back a sob. There will be a time to take all this in, but it’s not now, not with her hands crawling up his bare arms and around his neck, pressing his head closer to hers, the kiss a clash of lips and teeth and tongues.

His hands fall lower, down the curve of her back until they grab her buttcheeks and he pulls her closer against him. He grunts and she moans and hers is the sweetest sound Sergei has heard in literally forever. His fingers knead the flesh and she’s almost purring, her breath quick and ragged against the skin of his face.

His lips slowly leave hers and press kisses along her jawline, his tongue swiping over every inch he kisses. Her skin is smooth and soft and he can’t get enough of it, not even when his mouth reaches her neck and starts suckling on its sensitive skin.

She quietly moans in his ear when he sucks on her sweet spot and he grins against her skin, pressing his pelvis harder against hers. He’s growing harder and he can only hope she’s growing wetter.

When she softly calls his name, he moans against her jaw. “Why did it take you so long?”

He chuckles at that. His hand slips into her pants and panties and his fingers press against her core. “Were you waiting for me?” He’s honestly terrified of what her answer could be, but she’s letting him tease her pussy, so it can’t be that bad. Right?

“Yes.” Her answer is a moan and as his forefinger presses against her clit, her head falls back. “Fuck, yes.”

She’s breathing hard and all Sergei can do is drink her in–closed eyes, kiss-swollen lips, flushed skin. She’s a fucking goddess and…

And this must all be a dream. Or his personal version of seven minutes in heaven before he dies for real and goes down to hell.

He removes his hand from her pants and grabs her hips, pushing himself closer against her, hiding his face in the crook of her neck. Her arms wrap around him and all he can do is breathe her in. “Will you be here at morning?”

“I will.”

Sergei needs nothing else: he picks her up in his arms and when she wraps her legs around his waist, he can’t help but buck his hips up against her. When he looks up at her, she’s grinning down at him. She grinds herself against him and he groans at the soft moan she lets out.

He looks up at her and he’s breathless. Even when he lays her down on his undone bed, he has to remind himself to keep breathing, for her eyes are drawing him in, they make him forget his own name.

There’s a question burning the tip of his tongue– _Are you sure? Are you sure you want this with me?_ –but he can’t bring himself to voice it, not when she’s looking up at him with glossy eyes, lips parted, breath short.

She giggles. “Stop staring at me.” Her hands come up to cover her face, but his are quicker: his fingers wrap around her wrists and he gently forces them on the mattress on either side of her.

He doesn’t say anything. He just dips his head down and pecks her lips before sucking on her lower lip, his body better nuzzling between her legs. Her skin is flushed as he kisses her neck; her chest rises and falls quickly against his. He loses himself every time her chest touches his and he can’t stop the slow grinding of his hips against hers.

He’s held back for so long that he can’t stop himself now. He _doesn’t want_ to stop himself. Doesn’t see why he should in the first place.

“I want to see you,” he whispers against her ear and she shivers in his arms. “Can I?”

She moans when he asks that and she pushes her shoulder against him to prompt him to sit up. At first, he’s scared– _fuck_ , she’s pushing him away, he stepped over an invisible line and now she’s done with him, she doesn’t want to have anything to do with him anymore. But then her hands grab the hem of her shirt and she quickly pulls it off.

Sergei is left breathless.

That’s lace.

 _That’s motherfucking lace_.

His knees, pressing into the mattress he’s kneeling on, turn weak and he almost falls forward, against her.

That’s… that’s probably too much. That lace bra compliments her skin so much that he can now feel his dick throbbing in his briefs. And when she pushes him to lay down on the bed and she climbs over him, his eyes roll back into his head.

“Are you okay?” The tone of her voice is concerned, but he can barely register it, for his mind has momentarily forgotten anything about English.

Her face is millimeters from his when he opens his eyes again. His fingers graze the skin of her sides and up until they skim against her lace bra.

 _Holy mother of God_.

They both moan when he swipes his thumbs across her nipples, turning them into hardened buds a little more with each stroke.

Sergei Yurchenko is in a fucking trance and he can’t look away. Not even when she grinds down against him. His eyes are glued to her lace-covered breasts and it’s almost as though his lungs have stopped working. His mind is empty, his blood has all rushed to his loins.

He seems to come back to reality when he notices her hands are now behind her back, trying to unclasp her bra. “Keep it on,” he groans, bucking his hips upward once before turning her with her back to the bed. “A little longer,” he adds, lips brushing against hers, hands running down her arms.

She holds her breath when his kisses glide down her neck and her cleavage before moving to her breasts. Hands bruising on her hips, his own grinding slowly against the mattress, Sergei wraps his lips around her left nipple and he sucks hard before swiping his tongue over it. He goes on like that for what feels like an eternity, until she’s a squirming mess under his heavy body and she begs him to stop, she threatens to come.

 _He wouldn’t mind that_.

Not one bit.

But he still stops–or, better, he focuses on something else. His lips move down her abdomen, they leave open-mouthed kisses on her right hip as his fingers hook under the hem of her pants. He takes them off slowly, making sure to maintain eye contact with her, and this time he has Piotr’s same shit-eating grin on his face.

Then, when her pants have almost reached her ankles, his eyes catch the turgid nipples visible from under her bra and he groans. He yanks her pants off and has to resist the urge to touch himself.

His calloused hands are coarse against the smooth skin of her ankles, of her calves, of her knees. But she doesn’t move away, she doesn’t cower under his touch. She simply moves her hands against her own skin, from her belly then up, until she’s cupping her breasts, back slightly arching under his burning gaze.

He kneels down, between her legs, and he kisses the inside of her thighs ever so slowly, and softly, and tenderly.

It’s almost as though he’s never stopped having sex and, at the same time, it all feels new. The way she meowls under his touches, or shivers at the feeling of his stubble brushing against her tender skin. She calls his name in whispers, like a prayer, and all he does is smile against her flesh as he inches closer to her core.

 _Lace panties_.

The thought that maybe she’s always worn lace in the hopes of getting bedded by him does cross his mind. And even though there’s no certainty behind it, even though he knows it’s just one of his billion illusions, he likes to think that way.

He inhales sharply against her before leaving a kiss on her.

It’s all so fucking…

Fucking…

Sergei can’t think anymore as he removes those panties from her body and all she’s left in is a damn lace bra.

_Fuck. Fuck. Fuck._

It feels like dying and coming back to life straight after. He could literally _purr_ at the sight of her, splayed on his bed in nothing but the same lace he’s often– _always_ –fantasized about.

His mind goes to Piotr for a fraction of second–God bless that motherfucker for giving Y/N his address. But it’s all over before he can even realize that thought.

Because when she begs him–begs ‘Sergei’ in the lewdest voice possible–he bends lower and swipes his tongue over her labia. He groans at her wetness and the vibrations make her squirm, they make her beg harder, moans turning into a soft litany as he goes straight for her clit.

He gives it a gentle lick, then a rougher one, and before they both know it, he’s pushed a rough finger into her pussy. All he can think is, _she’s so fucking tight_. He loves it, it makes him grind harder into the mattress as his lips latch around her clit to give it a harsh suck.

They’re both panting now. And the fact that _he_ is the cause of her quick and labored breathing–his tongue and lips and stubble and fingers, for he now has two thrusting slowly into her–brings his arousal to the next level. To the next _thousand_ levels.

One of her hands moves to the back of his head to push his face harder into her, the other is tugging at her right nipple. Her toes curl and her thighs close in on Sergei’s head, but he doesn’t seem to care as he eats her out. He keeps up his work even when the walls of her vagina start clamping down harder on his fingers and the arch of her back deepens and her moans increase in volume.

_Sergei. Sergei. Sergei._

It’s a new mantra. He–a new god being begged and prayed upon.

He feels like he’s going crazy, like he’s going _on fire_ just by pleasuring her.

When she comes–and she comes _hard_ on his face and on his fingers–she’s breathless, thighs a cage around his head and he has to fight his way out of it, a grin plastered on his lips.

He kisses his way up her belly, the valley of her breasts, her neck. His body pushes down harder against hers, hands moving underneath her and grabbing her shoulders, tongue lavishing the sweaty skin of her neck. His hips lull against hers as he breathes her in, kisses her shoulders, the dip in her collarbone, her cheeks, her lips.

It takes her some time to come back to reality, and a little longer for her arms to wrap around his solid, Ukrainian body. She smiles under his kisses, exhaling hard from the nose, and she pecks his lips, presses hard against them because that’s the only thing she’s able to do now, her body and mind and _soul_ still swimming in pure bliss as her body shivers and her core throbs and her nipples, as hard as stone, hurt against his muscular chest. He’s her anchor, keeping her grounded to the ground–or mattress–and she’s glad he’s here with her– _for_ her. She’s glad she forced Piotr to give her Sergei’s address in the first place and she’s glad she’s come, she’s glad she’s kissed him. Heck, she’s glad she’s kept on her lace lingerie for she now thinks he loves it.

And the longer he holds her, the quicker she calms down–and comes back to him. He’s not even aware of his hips ever so slowly grinding against hers until she moans–low and guttural from the base of her throat–and she bucks up against him.

His lips resume their kisses and they glide over her skin, following her collarbones, hands moving from underneath her to slide the straps of her bra down her shoulders.

As he looks down at her, a smile tugging at his and her lips alike, he swears she looks like an angel. The lamps of the bathroom shed light on the side of her face and– _fuck_ –isn’t she the best vision he’s ever had. He stops what he’s doing and he bows his head, captures her lips in a kiss–lingering and bruising and slow and deep, all at the same time. And he doesn’t want to pull away–nor does she.

One of his hands glides down the side of her body, holds her hip in place as he presses harder against her, almost as though he wants to become one body and one soul with her.

He feels like he’s ready to die. And all the mistakes of his past seem stupid and important at the same time, and he’d do them over and over again if they’d still bring him here, in this bed, with this woman calling his name like a prayer against his lips.

But human nature is what it is and his erection is uncomfortable, caged in both his briefs and his pants, pressed up against her dripping cunt. And so, his arms wound themselves around her waist, they push back again underneath her. His fingers unclasp her bra and when she sighs in contentment, he groans and his hips buck forward with the force of an animal.

“Sergei.”

She calls his name again and he loses it–loses his mind and his control over his body and he swears he could come right then and there if she called his name like that again. He hums, forehead falling forward to rest in the crook of her neck when her hands slide down his back, fingernails lightly scratching his skin before slipping underneath his pants and boxers, grabbing his buttcheeks in a steel-hard grip. His hips buck forward of their own accord and he gasps and she moans.

And she arches against his chest, her bra an annoying barrier between the skin of her breasts and that of his pecs.

There’s no time to think, for her hands are trying to push his clothes down her body, but she can only reach underneath his ass. She groans and he sucks hard at the base of her neck, scraping his teeth against her skin before lapping at it with his tongue. And when he’s happy with his work, he holds her tight and rolls over on his back.

The pressure of her weight on his rock-hard dick is almost too much and he groans hard, holding her hips and dragging her back and forth against him for a couple of seconds before she finally yanks her bra down her arms and throws it behind her back.

Tits plump and nipples beaded–she’s a motherfucking vision.

He calls her name and she moans softly, under her breath. His fingers walk on the skin of her arms, they trace her collarbones and slowly, slowly, _slowly_ they reach her nipples. Skin on skin, the contact is amazing: it ignites a fire that seems to travel down her spine and straight to her core and she has to– _she has to_ –grind against him once again before she moves down between his legs. She kisses his V-line, her breath tickling his skin and her lips sending waves of arousal to his already throbbing dick.

All he can think about is her pussy wrapped around him and he has to refrain from manhandling her and pushing into her, for he feels like they have both waited too long, too much, too hard.

But he sighs when she takes his sweatpants and boxers down his legs, letting them fall to the ground. His dick arches back against his stomach and he hisses when its head brushes against the skin of his abdomen.

She moans when she sees him–hard and veiny and leaking pre-cum–and her hand travels down her belly until it stops between her legs. Sergei’s hips buck up into the air at the sight of her fingers teasing her clit and when they make eye contact, they’re both ready to devour each other.

A string of adults-only Russian leaves his lips like fingers counting rosary beads when she settles between his legs, hands running up and down his thighs. Eye-level with his cock, she’s a vision to behold. But when her tongue slips past her lips and drags a stripe up his dick, from base to tip, pressing hard against the vein on his underside, he’s forced to close his eyes.

His hands wrap the sheets into fists when she starts peppering kisses on his shaft, breath hot and damp against his burning skin. Her fingers tease his balls, her tongue flattens itself against his erection and moves upward until she’s kissing his angry-red head. She sucks on it, and she hums, and lost in the pleasure of the moment, Sergei bucks up and shoves his dick further into her mouth.

But he can’t…

He doesn’t…

“Y/N.” His voice is weak, his hands demanding as they push her shoulders.

When she looks up at him, devil-tongue licking those angel-lips, he’s panting, breath ragged as it drives up his throat.

“I know,” she whispers, kissing up his torso and paying attention to each one of his bruises. Her tongue soothes the stinging away, her kisses leave burning skin behind.

“Condom,” he says–he wants to fuck her raw, but he guesses there’s going to be time for that later. He _hopes_ there’s going to be time for that later. “Bedside table.”

She’s quick at coming back. She sits on his thighs and he stares as she rips the foil open. It’s new for him–to have a woman to wrap him up and not do it himself. Raptured, his eyes are glued to her every movement: the way she pinches the tip of the condom, how she grabs his dick at the base, the way she rolls the latex down his length. And then, the way she perches herself on his shoulder with one hand as the other guides him to her entrance before sinking down on him in one swift movement.

It’s… mind-emptying. It locks his muscles and tenses his body like a bowstring.

She is… “So fucking tight,” he lets out in a huff.

She’s panting above him, lips brushing against the side of his neck as his hands grab her hips tight.

She’s so tight and so wet and so fucking hot he feels himself being tugged into another astral plane. There’s no other fucking explanation for the way he’s feeling–nor for the way she feels wrapped around him like a glove.

They both lay there for a while, breathing each other in, feeling each other’s skin–and each other’s breath on each other’s skin. It’s heaven and hell and purgatory combined and they both wonder why they haven’t done this sooner, why they’ve kept on being cowards for so long.

Because right now… _Boy_ , right now it feels so _fucking right_. Like they belong there, on that bed, his dick up her vagina, her breasts pressed against his chest, lips blindly searching each other as they both try to breathe.

He holds her closer, hands bruising on her doll-skin. And she lightly bites the skin of his shoulder and when she slightly moves, they both moan and hiss and gasp. It’s a fucking symphony no one but them is able to hear.

Then, ever so slowly, he pulls his hips back, ass pressing down harder into the mattress, before he thrusts back into her. Y/N whimpers, Sergei moans. They lull each other slowly before the fire in their stomachs starts to build again and it becomes a raging hell.

She plants her hands on his pecs and pushes herself up and the change in angle leaves them both breathless. It takes them a while, but when she starts to move, to bounce on his dick, the rhythm increases.

And, once again, she’s a sight to behold. Her breasts bounce with every movement and he can’t stop himself: he reaches his hands up and grabs a hold of them. He massages the skin, tugs on the nipples, and she’s a whimpering mess under his touches. And when his gaze wanders lower…

 _Fuck_ –his hips buck up hard and he ends up deep into her and she squeezes down on him, wrapping around him so hard that…

 _Fuck_.

He can’t look away from the sight of her pussy running up and down his dick. He’s fucking _entranced_ and he moans at the sight, moans at the _feeling_.

There’s no holding back now–not now that he sees his dick shoved up into her, condom glistening with her wetness under the light of the bathroom. He picks up the rhythm, arms wrapping around her body and pulling her back down flush against him.

Her breasts pressed against him feel like heaven; her moans a sinful humming in his ears. It’s his name again– _Sergei. Sergei. Sergei. Sergeisergeisergeisergei_. Rhythm and volume pick up with each thrust of his hips and his back arches without him being able to stop it.

His hands trail down her back, glide over the curve of her ass, grab her buttcheeks like she’s done with him before–but _harder_. He squeezes the flesh and he pounds harder and the wet sound of his dick thrusting in and out is the only intelligible sound in the room as he grunts and she moans.

His orgasm strikes him like lightning. Like a punch to his stomach that leaves him breathless. He tenses under her, hips pushing upwards and deeper into her spasming pussy.

She follows him right after and she, too, tenses in his arms and she tries to squirm away for the force of her climax robs her brain of its ability to function. And his hips slowly and sloppily thrusting into her are too much and his throbbing and twitching dick is too much and his arms around her are too much and his _body_ under hers is too much. And she comes again, lightly this time, but she’s still shivering and quivering and whimpering as she tries to recover from the second orgasm of her night. And she tries to breathe so hard it almost hurts and it takes her a while to feel Sergei’s lips and tongue lapping at the flushed skin of her neck.

*

The next morning, when Sergei wakes up, he can barely move. His body hurts and aches and his dick is still sensitive, even _more_ sensitive now that it’s hardened by his morning erection. The muscles in his thighs and arms are sore, the bruise on the side of his ribcage thrums dully through his morning haze.

“Good morning.”

He turns his head quickly at the sound of that voice, skull throbbing through his recovery phase from Vladimir and Anatoly’s job.

His breath gets stuck in the back of his throat when he sees her there: disheveled hair, swollen lips, soft skin beaming in the early morning light. His hand reaches out, traces the profile of her jaw, trails down her neck before it gently grabs one of her boobs and stops there. Its weight is strangely comforting, it brings him back to last night.

And he smiles.

He scoots closer to her, leaves a kiss on each of her nipples before he presses his lips against hers and she giggles.

Her arms are welcoming–and warm, so warm he feels like losing himself in their embrace–and they tug at him until he’s hovering over her, his head dipped down to kiss her cheeks and her neck and her shoulders.

They still have a couple of hours before going to work and they plan on making the most of them.

 _Raw_ , this time.

**Author's Note:**

> Also posted on my Tumblr (angelaiswriting.tumblr.com). Unfortunately I'm terrible at updating Tumblr and AO3 at the same time haha


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